


A Very Bond Christmas

by Deastar



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-03
Updated: 2013-01-03
Packaged: 2017-11-23 12:36:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/622206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deastar/pseuds/Deastar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’m always here,” Bond says, smiling.</p><p>“Not when you’re on mandatory medical leave,” Q shoots back. “If they won’t let you shoot things or blow things up, you’re never here. So again, Bond, what are you doing here?”</p><p>Bond produces a small, wrapped box from behind his back, covered in green paper with a gold ribbon. “Brought you a gift.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Very Bond Christmas

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [邦德式圣诞](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2433317) by [Go_MrCactus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Go_MrCactus/pseuds/Go_MrCactus)



> It's not Christmas without ridiculous Christmas fluff. Thanks and a belated Merry Christmas to laulan, who reminded me what I love about fandom. Josephine and I are thinking of you.
> 
>  
> 
> ETA: This fic is now available in a [Chinese translation](http://www.mtslash.com/forum.php?mod=viewthread&tid=105285&extra=page%3D1) by Go_MrCactus!

On Christmas Eve, SIS is relatively empty; not _completely_ empty, never that. But a skeleton staff. Not all of M’s people are orphans.

Bond walks through a long, white hallway, into a dark elevator, through another hallway, and finally through the sliding door into Q’s new office. He’s moving as silently as he can, but nevertheless, after six paces, Q says, “Good morning, 007,” without looking up from his screen.

“It’s night, actually,” Bond replies.

Q’s eyes narrow, still fixed on his screen. “Well, that’s rather unfortunate. I’m seeing my sister tomorrow and I’ve still not got a gift for her. I was supposed to go shopping today, but 004 missed his blasted train and he wanted me to chat with him while he hiked across the bloody Romanian countryside for the last eight hours.”

Now he looks up at Bond. “He gets bored easily. Much like some other 00s I could name. What are you doing here, Bond?”

“I’m always here,” Bond says, smiling.

“Not when you’re on mandatory medical leave,” Q shoots back. “If they won’t let you shoot things or blow things up, you’re _never_ here. So again, Bond, what are you doing here?”

Bond produces a small, wrapped box from behind his back, covered in green paper with a gold ribbon. “Brought you a gift.”

Q eyes the box suspiciously, making no move to take it. Eventually, Bond sets it on Q’s desk, just by his elbow, and after a long moment, Q picks up the box gingerly and begins unwrapping it. He unties the ribbon, then carefully slides his fingers under the tape at the ends, loosening it so that he can remove the paper without tearing it. Bond bites the inside of his cheek, but says nothing, and his smile does not get any wider.

The box is black and sleek, with two sets of black hinges along one side. Q opens it, and when he sees what’s inside, he glares at Bond, who only looks more amused.

“Very funny, 007. Which one of the other 00s did you pay, trick, or threaten to get them to hand over their gun?”

Inside the box is a Walther PPK, nestled in foam, not a single scratch or nick in its smooth black finish.

“It’s mine, Q,” Bond says, putting on the air of a man unfairly accused.

“You have never, not even _once_ in the eighteen months I have outfitted you, brought back one of your guns intact,” Q points out, narrowing his eyes.

Bond just reaches into the box, picks up the Walther, and waits until the lights turn green before setting it back down in the box.

Q stares, eyes flicking back and forth between Bond and the gun. “ _How_?”

Bond opens his mouth to speak, but Q cuts him off. “The gun I gave you for this last mission, in Jakarta, was crushed to bits. You brought the bits back to me. They were recognizable bits. This isn’t—”

“This isn’t from Jakarta,” Bond replies. “I finally brought one back in October—”

“ _October_?”

“But I wanted to save it for a special occasion,” Bond finishes, with mock solemnity.

“ _October_?” Q asks.

“October,” Bond confirms.

“That would have been…”

“Riga,” Bond supplies.

Q’s eyes narrow. “You told me the gun I gave you for Riga was eaten by a hippopotamus.”

“And you believed me,” Bond points out, with no small amount of merriment.

Q glares. The first one was eaten by a Komodo dragon. It wasn’t as unreasonable as Bond is making it out to be.

“Happy Christmas, Q.”

Q continues glaring, but as the seconds tick by, a smile begins to tug at the corners of his lips. “This raises the bar, you know,” he informs Bond. “Now that I know you are _capable_ of bringing them back to me intact, I shall _expect_ it. Without fail.”

Bond’s voice is low, and he holds Q’s gaze, when he says, “I will do my best to gratify you.”

Q’s looks away, and a slight pink touches his cheeks. “See that you do,” he announces. “I don’t have—well, I do, of course, but it wasn’t to be… oh, I don’t know why I bother.” Yanking open a drawer in his desk, he pulls out a slender brown box and thrusts it toward Bond, muttering, “It isn’t wrapped.”

Eyebrows raised, Bond accepts the box and lifts the lid. Not a muscle twitches in his face. After a long moment in which Bond’s eyes are fixed on the box’s contents and Q seems to find the corner of his desk intensely interesting, Bond clears his throat.

“A pen-and-pencil set,” he declares, flatly. “You’ve got me a pen-and-pencil set.”

“Yes,” Q says, sounding puzzled. “I thought you’d be pleased.”

“By a pen-and-pencil set.” Bond clears his throat again, and says quickly, “It’s quite… sleek. And I do frequently need to… write things—”

“Oh, it’s an _exploding_ pen-and-pencil set, you impossible man!” Q shouts.

Bond blinks. Then a slow grin starts to spread across his face. “I thought you said you didn’t make—”

Crossly, Q replies, “I don’t.” He picks up his coat from where it’s been flung across the back of his chair and as he slides his arms into the sleeves, he mutters, “But… you know. You’re. Well. I hope you like it.”

“I’ve been wanting it for quite some time,” Bond answers, and his smile goes a little crooked.

“I have to go,” Q says crisply, doing up the buttons on his coat and continuing to avoid eye contact. “I’m glad you’re pleased.”

Smoothly, Bond says, “I’m leaving, too.” He stands aside to allow Q to go through the sliding door, then follows him through, suddenly coming up short.

“Would you look at that,” Bond observes, looking up at the lintel outside Q’s office. “Mistletoe.”

Q stops, looking first up at the lintel, then down at Bond’s face, which is wearing an indecipherable smile. His eyes narrow. “This?” he asks, voice high, “ _this_ is the famed James Bond Seduction Technique? On _this_ rests the safety of the British Isles and all their citiz—”

Bond kisses him. It goes on for rather a long while. Q’s hands clench in the fabric of Bond’s coat, once, and then again, and his eyelids flutter closed.

When the kiss breaks, Q stumbles until his back hits the wall, his knees apparently quite wobbly. He stares at Bond.

“What are you thinking, Q?” Bond says, quietly.

“My great-aunt Myrtle in Yorkshire is suddenly feeling incredibly safe and secure and has no idea why,” Q says, dazedly, and Bond throws back his head and laughs.

“It wasn’t my intention to put you in mind of your great-aunt,” he replies. “Perhaps I could make a better impression on a second try.”

Q smiles and picks himself up off the wall. “Perhaps you could.”

Something in his coat pocket makes a beeping noise, and Q pulls a cell phone out and peers at the screen. “It’s Eve.”

“Oh?”

“She says it’s snowing.” Q looks back up at Bond. “She’s on the roof. Shall we join her?”

“I’d like that,” replies Bond.

“I should bring the Walther,” Q muses. “She’ll be very impressed. She knows my tale of woe.”

“What about the mistletoe?”

“Hm?”

“Should we bring that, too?”

Q considers that, and grins. “Yes, let’s. For later.”

“For later,” Bond agrees, pulling it down from over the doorway.

As they walk down the nondescript hallway toward the elevator, Q laughs for no particular reason. This is a hard place, and they are hard people. But it’s snowing on Christmas Eve.

“Happy Christmas, Bond.”

“Happy Christmas, Q.”


End file.
